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I have a secret pick-me-up spot, a place I go when I want to feel fabulous. They don’t give out massages, they don’t serve cocktails and as far as I know there are no illicit dealings going on there. The best part: It’s absolutely free. I’m going to share my heavenly haven right here, because we’re all women and every one of you deserves to know about it, visit it frequently and bask in its magnificence. I’m talking about the fitting rooms at Anthropologie. The space isn’t particularly luxurious or ample, the seats are hard and cold; but the lighting—oh, the lighting!—is downright bewitching. Inside that sanctified 5-by-5 space, I am a golden goddess, smooth and flawless (well, relatively speaking). If that lighting existed in the rest of the world, I wouldn’t even be shocked if I got carded to vote or was asked to model some modest lingerie. I haven’t figured out the secret yet, and believe me I’ve tried. Maybe the mirrors have the faintest layer of flattering film pasted to them or are tilted ever so slightly at some mystical angle; perhaps the light bulbs are pink. Whatever it is, I’m hooked. Listen up, designers of all other fitting rooms on the planet: Next time I get the urge to count my pores or scrutinize my thighs in glorious topographical detail, I’ll be sure to visit your fluorescently floodlit cubes. (Nothing like a little cellulighting to really brighten my day!) In the meantime, you could take a page out of Anthropologie’s playbook and probably double sales overnight. A suggestion: If you experience a bit of sticker-shock when you’re in there (Anthropologie’s duds are admittedly not inexpensive), remember that anything you buy wouldn’t look quite so good at home—minus that magical ambiance—anyhow. You’re just using them for the free, flattering light. Hey, they asked for it. Jenna McCarthy is the author of The Parent Trip: From High Heels and Parties to Highchairs and Potties. When she’s not admiring herself in a strangely flattering public fitting room, she can be found online at www.jennamccarthy.com.

I have a skeleton to pick with whoever came up with the whole trick-or-treat concept. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for pumpkin-carving and adorable costumes and ghoulish, glow-in-the-dark decor. But the dimwit who decided it was wise to send our kids door-to-door amassing their weight in sugar in a single evening ought to be hog-tied and forced to spend thirteen back to back hours in a room full of the wound-up goblins. (Whatchamacallit Dude, I’m talking to you.) My daughters may only be three and five, but they’re smart. They take a mental inventory as the loot drops into their bottomless bags, so it’s not like I can even sneak a bite-size Snickers out of the deal when they’re not looking. “Mom! I had forty-six Tootsie Rolls and now there are only forty-five. Let me smell your breath.” Little witches. Back in her day, my well-intended grandmother attempted to sway the tide by opting to give out shiny new pennies in lieu of candy. (The woman actually pawed through her pennies to be sure they were indeed both shiny and new.) Trust me when I tell you there is nothing sadder than the sight of a seventy-seven year old woman leaping about her lawn and trying to remove ninety-two miles of toilet paper from her trees. I mentioned to my friend Ann that I’d been fretting about how I was going to pry the sticky haul out of their grubby Halloween-stained hands. “You don’t know about the Switch Witch?” she asked, aghast. I admitted I did not. “Oh, she rocks,” Ann insisted. “Your kids get to pick out a toy that they want and the day after Halloween, they leave their candy sacks by their beds and the Switch Witch takes it away and trades it for the toy.” I feel bad for the poor Switch Witch’s thighs, but I’ll take a ginormous bag of candy over a blood-stained incisor any day of the year.